


Elle se retourna

by Jongley



Category: Portrait de la jeune fille en feu | Portrait of a Lady on Fire (2019)
Genre: Consensual Infidelity, Eventual Happy Ending, F/F, No Angst, also implied that he's gay too, i speak just enough french to be annoying about it and pepper the occasional word in, implied Héloïse/unnamed husband, it will go yet higher with the next update!, not sad though, references to past Pining, upped the rating slightly just to be safe, whatever he's unimportant what matters is they meet again
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:13:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23745124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jongley/pseuds/Jongley
Summary: When Marianne saw the flyer for the the Milanese symphony, announcing that they'll be playing selections from Vivaldi'sFour Seasons, she immediately knew she would go.She never wonders whether Héloïse might be in attendance, too. The possibility simply doesn't occur to her.
Relationships: Héloïse/Marianne (Portrait of a Lady on Fire)
Comments: 31
Kudos: 83





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> uhh yeah i saw this movie late at night by myself in dc and went through like half a box of tissues, visited my parents and dragged them to see it and went through the other half of the box. i started this fic right after i saw the movie the first time, and worked on it on and off for a few days, but it's been languishing in my wips for over a month, and there's so few fics for this movie i figured i might as well post it.
> 
> imo, this fic is best when accompanied by carly rae jepsen's legendary 2015 album "emotion" (also see: tomberlin's "at weddings," specifically the song "any other way"; "talk" by hozier, from his album "wasteland, baby!"; and "still into you" by paramore)
> 
> i have no idea if there was a symphony based in milan circa 1780 and frankly i don't care to; vivaldi's four seasons doesn't start with the part the final scene of the movie uses, so like, if céline doesn't care about realism wrt music than neither do i.  
> "le bon ton" was totally a bs faux-french british phrase from this time period; i doubt a frenchwoman would have used it, but whatever, marianne traveled a lot, pretend it's accurate. (it means, like, "high society")
> 
> content warning: in chapter one Héloïse implies that her husband is gay (well, she says he is, but she's using the more dated meaning, while totally implying the modern meaning), and there are heavy implications that future infidelity will happen; in chapter two, she and Marianne discuss it further, and H alludes to her husband having had affairs, which she's fine with; hence the tag for "consensual infidelity." if any of this is a potential squick or trigger for you, this might not be the fic for you. please take care of yourself, and don't hesitate to ask me if you have any questions re: tags, etc. (and pls lmk if i should add a tag/warning for anything!)

Marianne goes to the concert.

Of course she goes to the concert: it's her favorite piece of music. She has to go; it's not a question.

She's in Milan to complete a portrait commission of some gentleman's wife; it doesn't really matter who.

It's not Héloïse.

Marianne is still closer to Héloïse than she's been since she left the island, closer physically than she was even when she viewed Héloïse's portrait, that cheeky _28_ peeking out at Marianne from the canvas. That moment certainly felt more intimate, though, and Marianne misses that feeling of that private familiarity with Héloïse.

When Marianne saw the flyer for the the Milanese symphony, announcing that they'll be playing selections from Vivaldi's _Four Seasons_ , she immediately knew she would go.

She never wonders whether Héloïse might be in attendance, too. The possibility simply doesn't occur to her.

The day of the concert dawns dark and overcast; storm clouds gather all morning and well into the afternoon. It's already raining, with thunder clearly imminent, when Marianne enters the theater. She's looking forward, in an idle way, to hearing the storm breaking outside during the midst of the second movement; it would add a nice touch to the sensory experience she thinks Vivaldi was trying to evoke when he wrote the piece.

—

Marianne forgets everything in the span of a heartbeat as she lays her eyes on Héloïse.

Could it—could it really be her? _Héloïse_?

Here, at this concert, the same night as Marianne?

And just across the theater, too, in the box opposite Marianne's, at the same level—the perfect place for Marianne to watch her?

It can't be her. It can't be.

Right?

It must be a trick of the light, Marianne's eyes deceiving her; it's because they're in the same city, inspiring her to think of Héloïse more than usual, that's all.

Marianne hadn't let herself hope for a reason—she didn't want to be disappointed—it's such a big city, after all, and—well, it's silly, to just assume it's Héloïse, sitting across the audience from her.

It could be _any_ blonde gentlelady who happened to have similar features to Héloïse, even though Marianne had spent hours, _days_ , staring at Héloïse, studying how the light played across her cheek, her hair, her lips—air rushes into Marianne's lungs as she takes a breath for the first time in too long. She's been focusing so intently on studying the woman across the theater from her—the woman who simply can't be Héloïse—that she's forgotten to breathe.

Marianne feels like a lovesick fool, like a child of twelve who's become infatuated with a schoolmate for the first time, feels ridiculously like she's losing control over her body, her _mind_ , never mind that it's been years—nearly a decade, in fact—since she last saw Héloïse. Moreover, it probably isn't even Héloïse over there, it's foolish to assume that—

Marianne is well on the way to convincing herself that she's mistaken when the music suddenly begins, causing her to jerk upright, straightening up from the way she'd been leaning forward, her body not-so-subtly trying to inch closer to the lady who definitely isn't Héloïse.

As the first, frantic notes of music fill the hall, as Marianne feels her mouth stretch into an involuntary smile, she is still unable to look away from the blonde woman—and just as suddenly as the music began, Marianne can no longer deny _exactly_ at whom she is staring.

Is it really—it is.

It is.

It is, it _is_ Héloïse— _Héloïse_!

Marianne wants to jump up out of her seat; she feels so invigorated with love and longing she's sure she could cross the long distance between them in a single bound, could run and leap right into Héloïse's graceful arms.

In the next moment, Marianne masters herself again, clenching every muscle in her body to remain in her seat, to observe the emotions moving across on Héloïse's face—the same way Marianne had observed the light moving across Héloïse's face so long ago.

It's gorgeous—breathtaking, showstopping, amazing.

Awe-inspiring.

Every word Marianne can think of falls short of describing the breadth of emotion, of love, that is suffusing her entire body in this moment.

Héloïse is a vision, the most beautiful thing Marianne has ever seen, surely even more beautiful than anything she will ever see.

As Marianne watches, Héloïse's expression changes, Héloïse trying and failing to retain her composure: joy and appreciation, remorse and regret, sadness and happiness, love and longing, and above all, nostalgia, progressing across her face, one after the other, nearly simultaneous.

Oh, how Marianne longs to hold her, to wipe away Héloïse's tears, caused by a yearning whose strength is matched only by Marianne's own.

—

Eventually, the music stops.

Marianne couldn't say how much time has passed—it could've been minutes, or hours, or days—but eventually, it ends.

She swipes roughly at her own cheeks as Héloïse does the same across the room, holds still and watches as Héloïse stays seated, clearly still absorbing the music's impact.

Suddenly, Héloïse stands, startling Marianne, and Marianne realizes she—Héloïse will be going downstairs, she's—she's leaving, Marianne has to—she mustn't—

Marianne stumbles to her own feet, muttering apologies to empty seats as she weaves and dodges between the chairs, hastily making her way through the row; she's even less graceful now than she'd been getting into her seat in the first place.

She rushes out of the box, into the hallway, head whipping back and forth as she tries to remember which way the stairs to the main lobby are. Her mind is—her mind is all jumbled up, thoughts bouncing around making no sense, she's— _there_ , that's the direction Marianne needs to be going in, and she sets off with a purposeful stride.

She just has to make it—just down there; here are the stairs, the lobby's coming into view now, packed almost to the gills with members of _le bon ton_ discussing the show, but where—where is Héloïse, that blonde hair Marianne would know anywhere, where— _there_.

_There_ , Marianne spots her at the bottom of the other staircase, Héloïse's attention caught by some older gentleman.

Marianne rushes down the stairs, crosses the room with her elbows extended just slightly further away from her body than would be considered polite—but there are people everywhere, blocking her path to—

"Héloïse," Marianne breathes, finally reaching her. It's the only word she knows.

"Hello," Héloïse starts to say, polite and a little questioning, turning her head away from her conversation partner, towards—

"Marianne," Héloïse gasps, and her voice has the same hoarse quality as Marianne's.

"I didn't know that—" Héloïse cuts herself off, breaking her gaze from Marianne's. Héloïse visibly reminds herself of her manners, and excuses herself to the gentleman she'd been chatting with.

She turns back to face Marianne, whose breath leaves her lungs yet again at the intensity in Héloïse's gaze. Neither of them notices the gentleman's reply, if he even gives one.

"How are you—"

"I didn't know you were—"

They both start speaking at the same time; both stop abruptly to let the other continue.

After a moment, Marianne gestures for Héloïse to go on; nothing Marianne has to say could be more important than hearing Héloïse's voice speaking to her.

"I didn't know you were in Milan," Héloïse begins hesitantly, "I would have… enjoyed seeing you." She trails off, glancing around them quickly, acutely conscious of their being in public.

Marianne tries to bear their surroundings in mind, to squash down all the things she wants to say that are wildly inappropriate for the setting.

Instead, "I am in town for a portrait commission," she replies, brusque. "It is of no import. I didn't know how to find you, I didn't know if I—" she searches for a polite phrasing, "—if my presence would be welcomed. I wouldn't want to impose."

Héloïse exhales visibly. There's a touch of annoyance around her eyes, an expression with which Marianne is, pleasantly, still familiar.

"I would always welcome your presence, wherever I am," Héloïse says, in a tone that leaves no room for argument.

Marianne shivers. Her heart feels like a flower must, when it bursts into bloom.

Marianne shakes her head, trying to rid herself of such ridiculous purple prose. There's a reason she's a painter, and not a poet. Softly, she confesses, "I cannot tell you how gratified I am to hear that," too honest.

Héloïse smiles with the corners of her mouth, eyes crinkling. There are new, fine lines in the corners of Héloïse's eyes and around her smile; Marianne is so distracted by studying them that she misses the beginning of what Héloïse says next.

"—how much he loves the portrait you made of me. I wonder, perhaps, if you would be able to extend your stay in our city, to make a new one?"

Marianne blinks twice in quick succession. "You mean—I—that is, I—well—" _Dieu_ , and now she _sounds_ like a lovestruck fool, too.

Héloïse smiles wider and takes pity on her. "We have numerous guest rooms for you to choose from, of course. You would have your pick of the house." She makes a thoughtful face. "Or, now that I think of it, we have a separate guest house, too, behind the gardens. It's very secluded, you would be able to work in peace. You'd be—undisturbed, during your stay."

A rush of heat goes through Marianne. Héloïse can't mean it in _that_ way, surely? Not right under her husband's nose?

The curl of Héloïse's smirk looks a little wicked, though—even smug. "I assure you, your presence would be most welcome," she says like she needs to sweeten the offer, "My husband is often engaged in… other pursuits, one might say. Nonetheless, he has quite a gay disposition, and is always delighted to have guests."

There's a suggestive tilt to Héloïse's eyebrow, like she used to get when she was goading Marianne into abandoning her paints so they could kiss, and touch, and—oh, _Dieu_ , Héloïse absolutely meant what Marianne thought she meant, _merde_.

Marianne isn't sure she'll be able to finish this conversation in public; she's certain she is already blushing fiercely. _Dieu_ , and she had to respond, now, too; find some coherent repartee within the swirling miasma of lust that's replaced her brain.

"...If your husband would not be troubled by it, I would of course be honored to accept such a kind invitation," Marianne tries. There, that sounded decent enough.

Héloïse's smirk grows yet again. "Lovely," she says, "in that case, I must insist you accompany me home in my coach, so that you can ensure the lodgings are sufficient. If you find them acceptable, I will send our footman to retrieve your things from wherever you've been staying; you can remain with us, of course, for the duration of your time in the city. Shall we?" She prompts, holding out her arm.

Marianne is stunned speechless. Héloïse has always been a force of nature, and the intervening years appear to have only strengthened that quality in her. Marianne, for one, certainly does not find it unappealing. She reaches out, tentatively, and gently lays the tips her fingers upon Héloïse's forearm.

Marianne can feel the tension in Héloïse's muscles, as if Héloïse is having just as much difficulty controlling her body as Marianne is. At this realization, Marriane slides her hand around Héloïse's arm more surely, grasping it firmly, and Héloïse pulls her arm in closer to her own body, trapping Marianne's hand against Héloïse's side.

Heat radiates from that single point of contact, suffusing Marianne's whole body with a warm, golden glow. She glances at Héloïse's face, and the determination she sees there stokes the coals that have begun smouldering deep in her belly.

God, she wants to get Héloïse alone, wants to disregard propriety and grasp Héloïse to her breast, recreate the desperation and longing of their last embrace. Marianne is nearly overcome by the urge to do so; it's all she can do to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

Luckily, Héloïse is looking ahead, steering Marianne by the hand, and leads them out into the night, the theater's awning keeping them dry as the rain pounds down on the street in front of them.

The weather reminds Marianne of the inane expectation she'd had, of hearing the thunder reverberate through the symphony hall, and she huffs a laugh. She hadn't heard anything except the pounding of her own heart during the entire concert, too focused by far on watching Héloïse instead.

The breath of Marianne's laugh draws Héloïse's attention back to her, and their eyes meet briefly.

Marianne shakes her head slightly to say _I'll tell you later_ , or maybe, _it's not important_ , because Marianne knows that if she opens her mouth to speak, she won't be able to close it—knows she would lunge at Héloïse and kiss her open-mouthed and desperate, _wet_ , and they can't—not here, at least, but maybe—oh, _merde_ , in the coach, perhaps, what if—Marianne shakes her head again, more firmly this time, in an attempt to dislodge the thought.

It doesn't work.

She glances back up at Héloïse, who is staring out at the street, clearly searching for—and a coach pulls up to the curb in front of them, and Marianne can see Héloïse exhale in relief.

The footman jumps down from the bench, opening the coach door and guiding first Héloïse, then Marianne, inside. The door closes, encasing them in the dim space, only a little light shining in through the small windows, until Héloïse reaches out to close the little curtains, sequestering them in privacy at last.

There's just enough light filtering through the thick fabric of the curtains for Marianne to see the glint of Héloïse's teeth as she grins from the bench opposite, leaning in for a kiss.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i did all of five minutes of research into carriage designs only to discover that i actually meant "coach" instead, because i was picturing an enclosed vehicle on account of it's raining in the fic; chap 1 has been lightly edited to reflect this.
> 
> also: i posted chap 1 of this right before i went to bed and tbh didn't expect to update it for a while, but so many kind people had left such sweet comments when i woke up that i immediately started writing a second part, so here it is!! i'm now marking this fic as incomplete, because there will be a third (probably porny) chapter coming (hopefully) soon, at which point the rating will also change accordingly. i wanted to post and update with what i had sooner rather than later, even though it's short, to say thank you for all the lovely responses! i've removed the "ambiguous/open ending" tag as a result of marking it incomplete; this chap does not have the final resolution, though i'd say it's relatively happy nonetheless. (they will have a happy ending, i promise.)

Marianne exhales, and sinks into the kiss.

The coach jolts into motion, causing Héloïse to overbalance and jerk forwards, nearly landing in Marianne's lap. Héloïse braces herself with a hand on the bench next to Marianne's body, huffing a laugh. Dieu, Marianne missed that sound; she grins automatically in response to the sound of it.

"Come," Marianne beckons, reaching for Héloïse's free hand and tugging her to sit next to Marianne, facing forwards as the coach rolls along. Marianne has to scoot over, pressed up against the side of the coach, in order for Héloïse to fit next to her.

The coach isn't really meant to fit two people seated side-by-side, especially not women in full skirts, but Marianne finds she doesn't mind the way her nice dress is being squashed; she'd ruin any number of fancy habiliment to be close to Héloïse.

Héloïse lifts a hand to cup Marianne's face. "I feel like I'm dreaming," she whispers. "I've dreamt of you so many nights, it's hard to believe you're really—"

Marianne has to place her own hand on top of Héloïse's, at that, press it firmly against her skin. "I'm here," she says, "This is real. I've dreamt of you, too, but I didn't dare to hope that—I wouldn't be able to stand the disappointment if—"

"But you did," Héloïse says, "you found me, you're here, in Milan, in my coach, I can't believe—" and Héloïse is laughing, now, full-throated and disbelieving, and Marianne's chest aches with the sound and the bittersweet memories it evokes.

But they're not bittersweet, anymore, because—she's here, she's found Héloïse, after all these years, and Héloïse still feels—Héloïse still _feels_ , for Marianne.

"How did I ever get so lucky," Marianne marvels, staring at the joy on Héloïse's face, ravenous. "To get you once was a blessing, but to know you again is—it's more than I could ever deserve to have."

"Does it matter?" Héloïse asks, "What do we care, if we deserve it or not?" and there's an old hurt tingeing her words, a deep wound not yet fully scarred over.

Marianne curses herself silently for brining up old pain, but, while they're on the subject already—"I fear I am not nearly as concerned as I ought to be, about stealing your affections from your husband," she confesses, voice soft to match the hush of the dim space.

"Do not trouble yourself with such misplaced guilt," Héloïse tells her bluntly, "it is of no importance."

Marianne cannot help but raise an eyebrow, at that. If they were discovered, it would be—well, it doesn't bear thinking about, not here, in this happy moment.

"Do not make that face at me, I know what you're thinking," Héloïse chastises, like no time has passed since Marianne turned away and left Héloïse standing on the stairs, "Truly, it is not worth your attention. I spoke honestly, in the symphony hall; my husband is not overly concerned with my affairs. I have procured an heir for him; she was sent to the nuns at the appropriate age, and beyond that, I am free to do as I please."

"He truly would not mind?" Marianne asks, disbelieving. She has managed to avoid the need to marry, but the stories she has heard from her acquaintances suggest husbands are more likely to be overly invested in their wives' affairs than not.

Héloïse places a grounding hand on Marianne's knee. "Truly, yes. He has his own affairs, which I do not begrudge him; I have never taken a lover of my own, but I am sure he would not begrudge me the opportunity to do the same. And if he does—which he won't, he really is a good-natured man—I will simply remind him of his own indiscretions. It is a non-issue."

It's so acutely Héloïse, to frame the issue in such a way. Marianne is charmed, all over again, by how black-and-white Héloïse's conception of the world is, by her determination to shape things to her will. Marianne had worried, when she let herself ponder it, that the intervening years would dull this quality in Héloïse, and is gratified to see they have not done so.

And Marianne believes her, too. God help her, but she believes Héloïse.

"All right," Marianne says, and it's not a concession. "I trust you," she adds, because it's true.

"Good," Héloïse says, brushing her hands together brusquely, clearly putting the topic behind them.

— 

The sit in comfortable quietude for the rest of the ride, aside from the idle comment here and there about the region or the uncharacteristically fierce weather. Marianne holds on to Héloïse's hand, pressed securely between both of her own, and hums encouragingly when appropriate.

The coach ride is as smooth as it can be, over a dirt road during a downpouring of rain, which is to say, not conducive to desperately kissing one another for extended periods of time. It's alright, though—not ideal, admittedly, but acceptable nonetheless. They have time, now, there's no rush, at least not yet, and there's a simple pleasure in just sitting beside one another peacefully.

For the first time in too long, they know where the other is, and know they have this yawning cavern of time open before them, which they can fill with activities as they please. It's breathtaking, to Marianne, this gift that she's been given—by God, or the universe, or Héloïse herself—and she intends to revel in every moment of it, cherish every second.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _habiliment_ : old timey word for clothing; according to google: "from Old French _habillement_ , from _habiller_ ‘fit out’ "
> 
> oh! almost forgot: i would love to try to translate this fic into french! alas, my french... n'est pas suffisant pour faire ça, hélas. donc... y a-t-il quelqu'un qui serait intéressé à m'aider avec ce projet ? même si cela ne vous intéresse pas, merci beaucoup d'avoir lu cette histoire !


End file.
